


the sight of the sun

by sapphicbecca



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Set in Episodes 180-181 | Upton Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Stargazing, featuring! baths! waking up together! real food! reading together in a garden! and much more!, i go on a slight tangent about aliens but i SWEAR it makes sense. in context.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29723565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicbecca/pseuds/sapphicbecca
Summary: For a moment, there is nothing but the golden sunlight against his eyelids, Martin’s warmth, and their out-of-sync breathing. For a moment, if Jon squeezes his eyes shut and tries to forget, he can almost imagine he is back in the safehouse, sleeping in with Martin on a breezy autumn morning. For a moment, he tucks his face in by Martin’s neck and tries to pretend.--or: a few scenes from an all-too-short break from the end of the world
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 14
Kudos: 53





	the sight of the sun

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! this one has been mostly finished and sitting in my google drive for um. months. and i mostly left it there because tbh i thought it was a little too mushy. anyway after mag 194 i figured we could all use something mushy so i went back to finish it off and clean it up, and here we are!  
> anyway very big thank you to hannah [@gauras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gauras) not only for reading this over for me and giving helpful advice but also for the many alien-related conversations we've had!! as always sending stuff over for u to read is easily one of my favorite parts of finishing a fic
> 
> also! while this is definitely a standalone piece, i did revisit a few ideas i touched upon in an earlier fic i wrote way back in may, mostly with ideas about the stars/constellations in the apocalypse so if you're interested you can check that fic out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24306106)! 
> 
> an additional disclaimer: i DID actually do research into the real upton house for this fic. however i was not always satisfied with what i found so i Did just make shit up. to all british ppl and/or fans of upton house (?): i’m sorry. but not that sorry. sometimes a better narrative is one that’s less factually accurate :)

Jon wakes up feeling warm. 

He blinks a few times, but the room is bright so he closes his eyes, for a moment just enjoying the dim pulse of sunlight against his eyelids and the feeling of several thick blankets piled atop him, the feeling of something very warm very near to him. He breathes in and out slowly, and rolls over to shift closer to that source of warmth in the bed, sleepily reaching out with his hands to clutch at it. 

Next to him, Martin breathes out a laugh. “Hi,” he says, voice thick with fondness and sleep. Jon cracks open a single sleep-encrusted eye to see him, and immediately feels himself go embarrassingly soft at the sight. The sunlight falls yellow over the both of them, deepening the creamy-white of the sheets they’re tangled in. It falls into Martin’s brown eyes as well, turning them nearly golden as they gaze down at Jon. Martin’s cheeks are slightly flushed, and Jon’s heart stutters at the sight, because it’s been far too long since he’s seen Martin look so happy, since he’s seen that happiness be so unburdened and simple, not weighed down by the end of the world. 

“Good morning,” Jon murmurs, a smile pressing against his lips. 

Martin laughs softly again, delighted. “It is, isn’t it? Morning.” It almost sounds as though he’s savoring the words, and, Jon thinks, he has a right to. It’s been too long since they were able to even tell the time of day. 

“Should be,” Jon says, yawning, “unless we slept straight through the afternoon.” 

“Mm. That wouldn’t be such a bad thing.” 

“Suppose not.” 

“So, this… this _is_ all real, then? Not some dream?” Martin asks, his voice wavering between happiness and uncertainty, and Jon cranes his head to properly look up at him. 

“It is,” he says, willing his sleep-tinged voice to be steady and solid. “We’re really here.” 

“Good,” Martin says, barely holding back another big smile. “How are you feeling, then?” He rolls slightly closer and reaches for Jon’s hand. 

“I - good, I think. Well-rested at the very least,” Jon says. He pauses, reaches to poke the usual mass of Knowledge that thrums and writhes in the back of his mind. As he expected, there is nothing there. He’d felt it slipping further and further away as they’d crossed the boundary between apocalyptic wasteland and untouched oasis, but hadn’t had the time to truly examine how far away it had gotten. Now there is a strange emptiness in his mind, an absence he can almost feel, like the pain of a phantom limb. He tries to Know something about this place again, and receives nothing. He tries to Know something basic, a history fact, a simple mathematical equation, and receives nothing. He tries to Know where Basira is, and receives nothing. He tries to Know whether or not the two of them are safe at that moment, and receives _nothing._

He doesn’t realize he’s frowning until Martin speaks again.

“Jon? Everything okay?” 

“Hm? Oh, yeah, I just - I don’t think I can Know _anything_ here,” Jon says. He fidgets slightly with his hands and Martin draws him in a bit closer, stilling the agitated movement. Jon relaxes into the touch. “It’s - there’s just nothing there, anymore.” 

“That’s… that’s a good thing, though, yeah?” Martin looks down at him, head tilted on the pillow. Jon gives a little half-shrug. 

“Maybe. I don’t really know.” He’s pretty sure it’s not a good sign. He doesn’t say that. “Anyway - how are _you_ feeling?”

Martin lets out a groan, stretches out on the mattress next to him. “Honestly? _Hungry._ Also-” he gives an exaggerated sniff- “gross. I feel like it’s been months since I had a shower, and I feel _gross.”_

Jon gives a rather sympathetic hum, because, now that Martin’s mentioned it, all he can smell is the impressive stench coming off the pair of them, though he could have sworn it hadn’t been there before they crossed over into whatever this place was. 

“Should we go try to find a bathroom, then?” he asks, voice somewhat muffled by the pillow. 

“Mm. Ten more minutes,” Martin says, scooting back closer to Jon and reaching out for him. Jon is more than happy to oblige, and rolls into his embrace, slotting into place by Martin’s side. 

For a moment, there is nothing but the golden sunlight against his eyelids, Martin’s warmth, and their out-of-sync breathing. For a moment, if Jon squeezes his eyes shut and tries to forget, he can almost imagine he is back in the safehouse, sleeping in with Martin on a breezy autumn morning. For a moment, he tucks his face in by Martin’s neck and tries to pretend. 

* * *

They do eventually untangle themselves and slump out of bed into the hallway, poking their heads into various rooms and peering down long hallways until they finally locate the bathroom. The floors are a slick marble and the walls are decorated with floral patterns and gold trimming, and Jon thinks to himself that the whole room feels bigger than the entirety of the safehouse they left back in Scotland. Beside him, Martin lets out an excited laugh, and pulls him in, heading eagerly towards the massive bathtub that easily takes up half the room. 

They decide to take turns showering first just to get that first layer of apocalypse grime off, but once they’re both comparatively more clean, Martin leans over the side and begins filling up the tub. Jon doesn’t quite see what he finds in the various cabinets to mix in with the rising water, but soon the air floats with the scent of citrus and a more flowery fragrance, and the tub seems to be more bubbles than water. 

When they get in, they sit on opposite sides, facing each other, and their feet tangle together in the middle of the tub. Jon’s face, try as he might to battle his unwanted embarrassment, is slowly growing more heated and he decides to focus instead on the bubbles near him, cupping them in his palm. It’s not that he _doesn’t_ want to be taking a bath with Martin, he reminds himself, or that he’s embarrassed to be seen in such a vulnerable state, it’s just that this is all so _new_ to him. It’s a level of intimacy that he’s wholly unfamiliar with, having never quite gotten to that point in any of his previous relationships, and, to be honest, he wasn’t quite expecting to experience it during the literal end of the world. That said, if the mildly stained and rather sad-looking porcelain tub in Daisy’s safehouse had actually fit both of them, this might have been something they’d tried back before things went wrong, but the tub was barely enough for one at a time. Jon had always gotten the impression Daisy never actually tried to use it for bathing. 

After a few silent moments, Jon sneaks a glance up at Martin, who is gazing at him with his chin propped in his hands, and with far more love in his eyes than should be allowed. 

“What,” Jon says, attempting to wipe the embarrassment from his face and meet Martin’s gaze.

Martin just rolls his eyes. “C’mere,” he says, reaching over for Jon, who obliges, letting himself be pulled closer to Martin, to the point where they’re almost side-by-side. 

“Comfortable?” Jon asks. 

“Very,” Martin says with a hum, extracting his arm and draping it around Jon, who leans into it, slumping against Martin. He runs a lazy hand through Jon’s still-wet hair, stringy and hanging around his shoulders, and then pauses when he hits a knot and Jon winces involuntarily. “Jon. You did wash your hair when you showered before, right?”

“Of course I did,” Jon says, a little indignant. “Do you remember how bad it was when we got here?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Martin straightens up and reaches for something behind Jon. “A second round of conditioner probably won’t hurt, then.” He pulls back the little travel-sized bottle that had been sitting in the room when they first walked in, and turns to Jon. “Come on. Sit up.” 

Jon does, though he shoots Martin a rather grumpy expression while he does it. Martin just laughs quietly under his breath and rolls his eyes again, pouring an appropriate amount of conditioner into his hand. Then he begins slowly massaging it into Jon’s scalp, and any ounce of embarrassment and indignation left in Jon melts away. 

It’s - well. It’s nice, Jon decides. It’s _really_ nice. 

He won’t dwell again on all the times in the past where he’d longed to be cared for completely, all the times he found himself alone and was sure he was the only one who’d ever look out for himself - a grim perspective, for sure, considering how abjectly terrible he was at that. But even in his wildest daydreams of intimacy, his imaginings of maybe one day finding someone who would find enough room in them to spare him the smallest scraps of care, he can’t say any of those fantasies ever included having his hair washed by someone who insisted, someone who did so because they could and because they wanted to, because they had so much room in them to care for Jon. 

Martin hums an unfamiliar tune under his breath as he adds more conditioner into Jon’s tangled curls and slowly works out the last of the knots left behind, and Jon loves him so, so much.

* * *

It’s just past noon when they finish eating with Mikaele, and Jon can see that Martin is still so excited to be able to track the hours that pass them by. They excuse themselves, once more declining his offer of midday drinks, and wander around until they find an empty sitting room, mutually deciding to crash on the expensive sofas, for just a few minutes. They end up half sprawled across each other, Jon’s cheek pressed against Martin’s head leaning on Jon’s shoulder, their arms and legs an entangled mess. 

“Maybe we should take another nap,” Jon suggests. 

“Mmph,” Martin agrees. He shifts his head so he can speak more clearly. “D’you remember how to get back to our room?”

“I… do not,” Jon says, frowning. The excitement and novelty of not being able to Know things has completely worn off at this point, with him unable to check in on Basira or compel others or even ask the Eye to remind him which identical ornate hallway to walk down to find the bed they’d woken up on only a few hours earlier. 

“It’s up the west staircase and three doors down on the left hallway,” comes a voice from the other side of the sitting room, and Jon and Martin scramble up and off of each other to spot Annabelle Cane standing in the open doorway and smirking slightly. 

“Annabelle,” Jon says, his mind racing to catch up, while at the same time Martin begins to angrily ask, “What are you doing-”

“You boys just let me know if you need help finding… anything else around the house,” she says, cutting both of them off, and then walks around the corner and leaves without another word. 

The two of them just stare after her for a moment. 

“Well,” Martin eventually says, “guess we better go up the west staircase and three doors down the left hallway.”

“Suppose so,” Jon mutters. 

They hoist themselves shakily up off the plush couch and stumble upstairs, not bothering to change out of their clean clothes before collapsing onto the cream-colored sheets and into each other’s arms, falling to sleep almost immediately. 

When Jon wakes again, the sky outside is a dusky purple, and he realizes they must have just missed the sunset. They’ll have to try to catch it the next night, he thinks, and then he can’t stop thinking about what a strange thought that is for him now, the ability to casually make mundane plans with a set time and place, to plan something that will actually happen. It’s something he thinks he could get used to. 

Next to him, Martin shifts, still mostly asleep, and Jon takes the chance to just _look_ at him, see how relaxed and peaceful he is while getting real, undisturbed sleep. His face, these days mostly twisted in worry or horror, is smoothed out now, even offering a hint of a smile when Jon nestles back into his arms. It’s good to see, Jon thinks, and so he keeps looking, keeps admiring this peaceful Martin, asleep without a care in the world. 

When Martin opens his eyes a half-hour later, he finds Jon already gazing up at him, with what Jon is sure is a horrendously lovesick expression on his face. Martin just smiles in response, and Jon immediately flushes, knowing that he is the cause, the driving force behind that beautiful and slightly crooked smile. 

Martin keeps smiling as he sits up a bit to look at Jon better. “Still real?” he asks, voice light enough to let Jon know that he knows the answer, but serious enough to let him know that he does need to hear it again anyway. 

“Still real,” Jon says. 

“Good,” Martin replies simply, and then leans down to kiss him. 

Jon hums contentedly against his lips, and then bumps his forehead against Martin’s when they part. “Should we go try to find dinner?” he murmurs. 

“Probably,” Martin says, and then neither of them move. 

When they do eventually drag themselves out of bed, they find that the dining table is laid out with a feast, though without Mikaele or Annabelle in sight, so they sit down and tuck in. 

Jon hasn’t exactly been _hungry,_ again, not like he was before his humanity got tugged out of his grasp, but the food is good and he can taste it more clearly than he’s been able to in the past year, so he digs in happily enough to his risotto and even sneaks a bit of tomato from Martin’s salad when he’s not looking. 

Martin notices anyway, and steals a bite off Jon’s plate in retribution. 

It’s when they finish eating and start glancing around to figure out what to do with their dirty dishes, maybe looking for directions to the kitchen sink that the sounds of Mikaele’s piano playing begin to drift into the room, presumably from one of the grander sitting rooms just down the hall where the piano is located. 

Next to Jon, Martin chuckles softly, and puts his plate down. Jon turns to him, and Martin just wordlessly extends a hand. Jon blinks at it for a moment, and then smiles, taking Martin’s hand and dropping his other hand on Martin’s shoulder. Martin responds by drawing Jon in as close as he can, holding him tight against his chest. 

Jon thinks Mikaele might be playing some kind of waltz, but, for once, he can’t be really sure. Despite that, he and Martin are not doing much more than swaying in place, holding tight to each other, dirty dishes laying nearby. They don’t speak for a while, choosing instead to let the soft notes of the piano wash over them. It’s been so long since they’ve had time for anything as gentle as music. 

Jon rests his head against Martin’s shoulder, and when Martin speaks a moment later, Jon can hear his words rumbling up through his chest. 

“I really like it here,” Martin is saying, quietly, like a confession, his arms wrapped around Jon. 

“I know,” Jon says, and he tries so hard to say _me too,_ but there is a lump in his throat because he still can’t Know anything here, and because despite what the Eye has done to him he hates being cut off from it, and because he doesn’t like lying to Martin. 

“Are you really okay with staying?” Martin asks, “‘cause if not, we don’t have to. I would get it.” 

Jon stills and extricates himself enough from Martin to look him in the eye and hold his scarred hands up to Martin’s face. “I love you,” he says, the words solid and strong in his mouth. 

“I know,” Martin says, a slip of a smile sneaking through, “and I love you too, but…?” 

“We’re staying.” Jon adds a nod for emphasis. “Just for a bit, of course, but… you need the break.”

“So do you,” Martin replies softly, his eyes swimming with concern. 

“…I suppose so,” Jon says, after what is likely too long of a pause. 

He doesn’t like lying to Martin. 

Martin just breathes out as a reply and nods a bit, too. He brings a hand up to Jon’s cheek, tucks a loose bit of hair that escaped his braid back behind his ear. Jon leans into the touch, and then tilts forward to let his face fall once more into Martin’s sweater, folding himself back around Martin. They sway in place for a few moments more until, a couple of rooms away, the sounds of piano begin to peter out. 

“We should probably clean up our dishes,” Martin says, and Jon grumbles quietly in response, but unhooks himself from Martin’s embrace and picks up his plate. 

They then spend a good fifteen minutes wandering nearby hallways searching for a kitchen to wash their dishes in and put away, or, honestly, just a single sink at all. When they do finally find the kitchen, it is just as ridiculously extravagant as the rest of the house, but it has a sink, and it has a place to put the dishes. So, just like they would back in Scotland, Jon washes and Martin dries, and they chat happily about nothing in particular throughout the whole thing, both choosing to pretend this is something they can do every night, both choosing to ignore the apocalypse ravaging the entire world, less than a mile away. 

* * *

When Jon wakes early the next morning, Martin still slumbering beside him, he discovers that living in an untouched oasis does not, in fact, mean living in perfect weather conditions all the time. The room is currently washed-out in a gloomy grey, with very little light streaming in through the windows, and all Jon can hear is the heavy storm raging on just outside, rain pounding against the windows and thunder booming in the distance. 

Something tugs inside him at the sound of the heavy droplets against the glass, and Jon realizes just how much he had missed the rain. The dry, dusty wasteland they’ve spent months trudging through nearly made him forget how comforting it can be, the shifting of the weather. 

For a moment he lets himself wonder if there’s a lake or pond or creek somewhere in the sprawling gardens of the estate, something to supply the clouds with water for rain, if there’s an entire water cycle existing only in this safe zone. The next moment he decides he doesn’t actually care, tucking himself closer to Martin and letting the rhythm of the rain lull him back to a comfortable sleep. 

It feels like only seconds later that he’s being shaken awake by Martin, who’s yelling something nearly unintelligible to a half-asleep Jon. 

“-on! God, Jon, please wake up-” Martin’s voice is unexpectedly panicked. “Please, I can’t-”

A jolt of fear and urgency rushes through Jon, and he scrambles to sit up, bandaged leg twinging in complaint underneath him as he steadies himself. “I’m up! I-I’m - what’s wrong?” Jon blinks a few times, his head still too stuffy with sleep to make any sense of the situation. He can’t find anything that’s different than when he went to sleep. It’s only him and Martin in the room, on their bed, while the rain still pours outside. Jon turns to look back at Martin. “I don’t - Martin? Are you alright?” 

There are tears on Martin’s cheeks as he sits back, kneeling next to Jon on the bed. His hands shrink back to his lap. “You, um-” He sniffs, and rubs at his eyes. “You were - Christ. You were sleeping with your eyes open, Jon.” 

“Oh,” Jon says. He stares down at his lap. “I didn’t realize-” 

“Yeah,” Martin says. “Me either.” 

“I-I’m sorry?” Jon tries. Martin just shakes his head. 

“It’s fine, you just - it frightened me, I thought-” He shakes his head again. “Never mind.” 

The implication rings through Jon’s head, and he leans over to take Martin’s hand. “Hey,” he says, “look at me. I’m not going anywhere, alright?” 

Martin smiles and nods, and gives Jon’s hand a squeeze, before leaning back against the pillows, looking up towards the ceiling. Jon copies him. 

“I am sorry,” Jon says again. “Even just for scaring you.” 

“It’s fine,” Martin says again. “Honestly, I should’ve expected something like this, anyway.” He glances over to Jon. “Were you dreaming, or…?” 

The question catches Jon off-guard, and as he thinks back to his sleep, a warm feeling spreads through his whole body. “I wasn’t,” he says, a smile kindling on his face, “I - I actually _didn’t_ dream, I - god. I can’t remember the last time I slept without nightmares.” 

“Well, that’s good to hear,” Martin says lightly. He hesitates. “Even… even the coma?” 

_“Especially_ the coma,” Jon mutters. 

“Christ.” Martin looks back towards the ceiling. “Well. As much as I’d like to stay in bed awhile longer, I would have to say that I’m very awake now, so - want to go find some breakfast?” 

Jon smiles. “More than anything.” 

* * *

Jon has never seen a library this big in his entire life. 

When he and Martin both finished breakfast, the rain was still pouring steadily down, turning the outside world dreary and wet, so they decided to stay in and do a little exploring. It didn’t take them long before Jon saw a sign pointing the way to the library and eagerly pulled Martin down that hallway, that old and nearly unfamiliar feeling of excitement kindling in his chest once more. 

Martin’s already trodden ahead of him, presumably making his way over to the poetry section a few shelves away, but Jon is still staring at everything all at once, turning on his heel to take the whole room in. The bookcases tower above him, accompanied by those little wooden ladders on wheels he’s only ever seen in movies. Jon had always considered the Institute’s library to be decadent, certainly more prestigious than the library at uni, even if it could be considered a bit… _off-putting,_ at times, but this one almost effortlessly outdoes it in an instant. In something of a daze, Jon stumbles forward towards the numerous bookshelves, beginning to run a finger over the wide collection of titles that were lucky enough to be saved here from the end of the world. 

He seems to have found himself among a collection of older classics; his eyes skim over titles such as _Jane Eyre_ and _Frankenstein,_ and he thinks back to his days in uni, where books like these and the essays he had to write about them were the biggest worries he had. 

“Having fun?” Martin asks, suddenly standing next to him, a slim blue hardback clutched in his freckled hands. Jon blinks and looks up at him.

“Hm? Oh, yes, just… taking it all in.” 

“It _is_ very grand,” Martin says, and Jon laughs. 

“What a poetic observation,” he comments, crouching down to see the books on the bottom shelf. 

“It is, isn’t it?” 

“Mm. What’ve you got there, then?” Jon nods to the book Martin’s holding. 

“This? Collection of sonnets - Shakespeare’s.” 

“No Keats, then?” 

“Shove off,” Martin says, rolling his eyes. “You _know_ I don’t even like him that much.” He flips through the book in his hands. “But I actually read a few of these back in school, before… anyway. I always liked how he played with words.” 

“I’ve read a few of those, too,” Jon says, as nonchalantly as possible. 

Martin’s eyebrows shoot up anyway. “You? Really?” 

“I went to school _too,_ you know,” Jon teases, turning back to the shelf. Martin laughs a bit at that, and Jon smiles as he continues to peruse the titles stacked before him. 

By the time Jon eventually decides on an older edition of _War and Peace,_ Martin’s already drifted back and forth between bookshelves and found a few other poetry collections to his liking. He leads Jon towards the other end of the library, where a lit fireplace and an assortment of fancy armchairs await. Jon drags his armchair over to Martin’s, and then they both tuck in to their books, and the only sounds for awhile are the crackling of the warm fire, the soft turning of a page, and their slow, contented breathing. 

Perhaps an hour or so passes before Martin puts down his book, marking the page, and turns to Jon. 

“So… how’s your book?” 

With some difficulty, Jon drags himself off the page and out of the ensnarement of sentences to answer Martin. “Good,” he says quickly. “It’s interesting.” 

“Looks long,” Martin says, and Jon makes a quiet noise of assent, eyeing the page, eager to jump in again. “What’s it about, again?”

“Er - quite a bit, actually,” Jon says. “Russian politics from the 1800s, a few star-crossed romances, some ruminations on the nature of free will…” He trails off slightly, but Martin nods for him to continue, so he does. “It’s really quite a lot packed into one story, to my understanding. Although, I-I’m not quite sure I understand all of it yet, but I’ve heard, ah, interesting things.” Jon tilts his head. “Someone recommended it to me. Technically.” 

“Technically?” Martin asks. 

Jon scratches the back of his neck. “It was, um. It was mentioned in a statement.” He hesitates. “Annabelle’s statement, actually.” 

Martin just gives him a long, rather undecipherable look, then sighs and shakes his head. “Right. Well, I’m going to go make some lunch, bring it back here - any preferences? Requests?” 

“Oh, I can - I’ll come with you,” Jon says quickly. 

Martin raises an eyebrow. “I think I can handle a bit of cooking on my own.” 

“No, not - I know _that,”_ Jon says, “I just mean I’d prefer you not wander your way to the kitchen, alone, in a house with the Web lurking around.” 

“So _you_ can join Annabelle’s book club, but I can’t make us lunch in her kitchen?” Martin asks, unimpressed. Then he catches Jon’s expression, and adds “Kidding! Come on, then. Let’s go see if there’s anything good in the pantry.” 

The rain slows to a drizzle by late afternoon, and, by the time evening sets in and dinner draws near, the clouds have cleared away to reveal a beautiful sunset. Mikaele invites the pair of them to eat with him out on a table in the gardens, so they do, and the sun colors the flowers in varying shades of pink and gold. 

Jon holds Martin’s hand under the table as his eyes trace the streaks of yellow and orange across the sky, and, for the first time in weeks, or maybe even months, lets himself feel lucky, to be here, and to be here with Martin. 

The sun sinks lower in the sky, and Martin turns from it to smile warmly at Jon. 

* * *

They’re halfway through getting ready to turn in for the night with their newly-acquired books when Martin lets out a sudden gasp and drops the pillow he was adjusting. Jon startles and turns quickly towards him, expecting to see a grotesque and crawling apocalyptic monster prying open their locked door, or Annabelle Cane barging in with an army of spiders, or just some other pissed-off avatar hellbent on murdering them in a place where they can actually die, but all he sees is Martin rushing towards the window and pulling the heavy curtains open. 

“Martin, what-”

“The stars, Jon,” Martin says, turning towards Jon with a helpless sort of glee on his face, and Jon finds he can’t even be mad about the fear still pounding in his chest. “Look, they’re - they’re still _here.”_

So it’s a quick decision, then, to grab an extra blanket from the cabinet by the bed, to throw their jackets back on, and to make their way downstairs towards the door that leads to the sprawling yard out back. When they happen to pass Mikaele’s impressive stockpile of alcohol on the way, Martin mentions offhand that it seems almost rude not to take him up on his extensive generosity, and Jon snickers, so Martin ducks in and emerges proudly with a dusty bottle of finely-aged red wine, and they continue on their way. 

The night air is cool and refreshing on Jon’s face, and he takes a deep breath in. Mikaele keeps the large yard quite well-lit, so a quick glance up shows that the stars aren’t nearly as visible as they could be, and nowhere near the clarity the two of them had enjoyed back in the empty fields of Scotland, but they can still see them, which is a vast improvement over what they had just a few days ago. Jon takes Martin’s hand and begins to lead him over to a darker section of the yard, farther from the copious garden lights but still well within the bubble of safety. 

Or - he tries to lead Martin there, but allows himself another quick glance up to the stars, and finds suddenly he can barely look away, attempting instead to walk straight with his gaze tilted firmly upwards. There is something in the sight of those stars that is filling him up with a solid sort of relief, the exhalation of a mental breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. Of course, the simple sight of the sun in the morning had been proof of the very same thing, but it wasn’t quite like the unwavering reminder of looking up and seeing the rest of the universe look back down. Jon looks to the stars and sees forgiveness in the spaces between, and he can’t bring himself to look away. 

Unsurprisingly, though, he stumbles over an uneven patch of grass two seconds later, and Martin has to hastily catch him by grabbing his upper arm before he can completely topple over. 

“Watch your step,” Martin chides, as he pulls Jon back up to a standing position. Jon nods sheepishly, and Martin pauses to look him in the eyes. “You alright?” 

“Er - yes, sorry,” Jon says, “I was just - just trying to take it all in, I suppose.” 

“That’s… not exactly what I meant,” Martin says, and he puts the wine down on the grass for a moment to reach over to Jon’s face and gently brush away a tear Jon hadn’t even noticed slipping down his cheek. “What’s up? Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“I, um-” Jon stares at the remnant of a tear still glistening in the dark on Martin’s thumb, and he tries to piece together the right words to explain a very new and specific type of relief, one that, he thinks to himself, has likely never occurred before in the whole of human history. He blinks quickly a few times. “I… it’s not - bad, or anything, don’t worry, it’s just - it’s reassuring, I guess?” Jon exhales. “To look up and know that whatever’s happening here, to this world, that it’s… it’s only happening _here._ I just - I may have damned this entire world, but at least I didn’t damn everything else.” 

There is a slight moment of silence after Jon finishes speaking, but it feels much longer as it hangs heavy between them. Jon wonders if Martin is considering the same thing he’d worried himself with since the thought had first occurred to him during one of the many empty hours spent crossing the wasteland of their old world. No matter what domain they were in, whenever they looked up, there was nothing above but thick clouds, dotted haphazardly by protruding eyes. The clouds never left or thinned enough to see past, and when Jon considered the implications of that briefly, his mind had gone into overdrive, conjuring images of an entire universe brought to its knees, a billion or trillion years of slow progress and growth stopped by a single man’s hubris. Supernovas stuck mid-explosion, orbiting planets put on pause, black holes losing their power to be sucked up instead by fear. Jon couldn’t stand the thought of it all, but the Eye refused to See beyond Earth, so Jon had continued forward, trying not to dwell on the astronomical repercussions of a single letter and a collection of scars. 

But the stars are _here,_ sitting right above, which means all of this _is_ just here. It’s all still horrendous, of course, but if it means he didn’t rip the Milky Way in two with a single invocation then he’ll take it, and he’ll tell the stars he’s sorry, anyway, for a fate narrowly avoided. 

The quiet lingers between them still, and Jon bites down all the other words bubbling inside him, waiting for Martin’s response, until- 

“Worried about the aliens, were you?” Martin asks, and he says it in a way that’s almost a joke, but doesn’t have quite enough levity to count. He hesitates for a fraction of a second before reaching out again, this time to cup Jon’s face, and then adds, in a much softer tone, “And you didn’t damn anyone, Jon. It was Elias, and it was _only_ him.” 

“I know,” Jon mutters. 

“Good,” Martin says, and shifts his hand to squeeze Jon’s shoulder. “I get what you mean, though, with seeing the sun, the stars. It’s - it’s good to know that the sun hasn’t stopped burning just because the Eye is blotting it out, you know? I mean, I did wonder, back out there… didn’t know what was left of the sky.” 

“I know,” Jon says again, and remembers trying to Know the fate of the constellations back out in the wasteland, to no avail. Martin smiles gently at him. 

“Come on, then,” he says, picking up the wine and taking Jon’s hand, leading them both to the edges of the garden. Jon follows, eyes flickering between the star-sprinkled sky above and the uneven ground below. 

Martin, for his credit, goes to the exact bit of yard Jon had been eyeing, dark enough to properly see the stars, but not far enough from the house to be anywhere near the border between apocalypse and paradise. As they stop and begin to set the blanket down on the unruly grass, Jon remembers something else he’d wanted to say. 

“For your information, I actually _was_ worried about the aliens,” he grumbles, trying to make it sound less silly than it feels to say. “Or - in theory, anyway.” 

Martin laughs, smoothing out a corner of the blanket. “I’m sure they’re fine. Probably got a whole _different_ set of Fears or what have you to deal with.” He plops the wine bottle onto the middle of the blanket. “Hey, actually, what d’you suppose the alien version of the Fears look like?” 

Jon shudders. “I have, thankfully, _no_ idea.” 

“Come on,” Martin goads, a teasing tone weaving its way into his voice, “you can’t tell me you’re not the least bit curious.” 

Jon just shoots him a withering glare as a reply, but thinks it comes out a bit too obviously fond as Martin just laughs again, laying down on the blanket with his hands tucked behind his head as a makeshift pillow. Jon slowly lowers himself down as well, turning his eyes fully towards the stars, giving himself permission to get lost in the cosmos once more, if only for a little while. 

The stars speckle the inky-black scape of the sky, twinkling and glowing just like they always did before. There is no other word for it; the night sky is unrelentingly beautiful like this. Jon’s sure if he were to concentrate he could pick out an encyclopedia’s worth of constellations dancing above them, even without the Eye to offer a helping hand. For now, though, he’s content to gaze upwards, still holding Martin’s hand, enjoying the quiet hum of the garden, the crickets chirping softly and the distant sounds of a fountain that is somehow, beyond all odds, still running. 

“Wait, so-” Martin’s voice cuts through the temporary quiet that had risen between them- “sorry, does that mean there _are_ aliens? Is that, like - could you See that?” 

“No, it’s - I don’t know.” Jon sighs. “The Eye is focused specifically around human fear and human knowledge, and since no human actually knows whether or not there is sentient life elsewhere in the universe… the Eye doesn’t know either.” 

“I guess that makes sense.” Martin hesitates. “So, all those people claiming to be abducted-?” 

“None of that was real.” 

“Hm. Figures.” 

Martin’s tone is remarkably grumpy, and Jon smiles to himself as he gently brushes his thumb along Martin’s hand. At the same time, he traces the stars with his eyes, notes the variations in brightness and size, how even though they’re all incomprehensibly far away, some seem closer than others. They glow and pulse and hold Jon’s gaze. 

Next to him, Martin shifts and rolls over on his side to face Jon, and, as much as the night sky has captured Jon, it’s no chore for him to shift his stare from the stars to meet Martin’s warm eyes. 

“So,” Martin starts. 

Jon raises an eyebrow. “So?” 

“Besides the stars,” Martin says, slowly, “and the aliens, and - whatever else, I don’t know - how are you doing?” 

Jon considers for a moment, and then, well-aware Martin will call him a sap for saying so, says “Good. You’re here, right?” 

Martin blinks at him. “Sap,” he mutters under his breath. _“Besides_ that, I mean.”

“I’m fine, Martin,” Jon says. “Why do you ask?” 

“It’s just - you know. All of it. The past few domains, Basira, Daisy…” Martin trails off for a moment, uncertain. “You made sure to check in with me back at that graveyard-”

“Necropolis.”

“-whatever, and I’m trying to do the same and check in with you now. So,” Martin says, pausing to quickly take a breath, “how are you doing?”

Jon falls silent for a moment, shifting so that his face is pressed against the wool of Martin’s sweater. “I’m… okay, I think. As okay as I can be, all things considered.” 

“Yeah?” Martin’s voice is soft and encouraging. 

“I just-” Jon pauses, tries to sort out the contradictions in his thoughts without much real success. “It’s hard to figure out sometimes, I suppose - friendship and grief without forgiveness. Daisy _was_ my friend, but… she hurt me so many times. Before, a-and after.” Almost in response, his mostly-healed leg throbs slightly in pain from where her jaws had been clenched around it, and he winces. Martin catches it. 

“Sure you’re okay?” he asks, and Jon hesitates for a bit too long before answering. 

“I will be,” he decides, and it’s so much easier to make that decision here than it has been anywhere else since he read that world-ending letter. But he will be. His leg will heal, and he will heal from everything else. The stars above seem to twinkle in agreement. 

“Good to hear,” Martin says. He leans in closer to Jon and presses a vague impression of a kiss to his jaw. Jon turns his head to meet him for a real kiss, soft and sweet under the starlight. 

“I love you,” Jon reminds him, the whispered words falling mere centimeters from Martin’s cheeks. Martin hums slightly.

“Love you too,” he replies fondly, and it still warms Jon up like the first time he ever heard it. Still, he can’t help but note the sleepiness sneaking into Martin’s voice as well, so he shifts slightly to look him properly in the eyes.

“Should we head back in?” he asks. 

“Mm, not yet.” Martin pauses to stretch slightly. “We haven’t really done any proper stargazing yet. We should get on that.”

“We should,” Jon agrees.

“Do you see any constellations here?”

“I do.”

“Can you tell me about them?” Martin asks. “Like - like you did back at the safehouse?” 

Jon looks up at the sky, and considers. “I’m afraid there aren’t too many happy endings above us,” he answers. 

“Doesn’t need to have a happy ending to be a good story,” Martin murmurs. “Or an important one, at that.”

“I suppose so,” Jon says back, and knows they both know that for a moment they’ve been talking about something else entirely. “Well, above us I _can_ see Hercules, Orion, Cassiopeia, Cygnus, a few others. Any preference?”

“Nah,” Martin says. “You always know what’ll make a better story, anyway.”

“Alright,” Jon answers softly. “Er - have I ever told you the story behind the Lyra constellation?” 

“Nope. Where’s that one?”

“Well, if you look up in the middle of the sky, at that bright star. That’s the head of Cygnus, the swan, and you can follow the wingspan below that star.” 

“I remember that one,” Martin murmurs. 

“And then, just underneath his wings, is that other really bright star?” Jon points. “It connects to a sort of tilted square of stars to the left, which all make up the lyre.”

“I… I think I see it.”

“Right. Well, the lyre is there to honor Orpheus and his music. Obviously, the instrument doesn’t have a particularly glamorous tale, mostly just accompanying Orpheus so he could perform his music. And… most people prefer to hear the story of Orpheus and Eurydice.” 

“I _have_ heard of them,” Martin says. 

Jon didn’t particularly like the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, the first time he read it as a child. Indeed, he even encountered several different recountings of the tale, with old books of Greek mythology often being among the books his grandmother gave him on several different occasions. He just always hated the ending, which was the same, no matter which retelling he read. A lot of Greek heroes had done something to deserve their tragic ending, whether through unnecessary violence or cruelty, or lack of respect for the gods. But Orpheus hadn’t done anything of that caliber, not in the opinion of a much younger Jon, nor of the Jon of the present. All he’d done was care about the person he loved, and turned around to see her, to make sure she was okay, just a moment too soon. 

“I’m sure you know how their story goes, then,” Jon says. 

“Tell it anyway?” 

Jon does. 

What he really never liked was how all the storytellers placed the blame on Orpheus, berated him for doing everything right until the last moment. So Jon doesn’t do that - tells it as though Orpheus did everything right, because, didn’t he? All he did was walk into hell for the one he loved, and then turn around to see his love again. He didn’t do anything wrong - just did it a little too early, or a little too late. 

Martin listens to Jon tell the story, and wraps his arm around Jon halfway through. Jon leans into the warmth when he gets to the end, and even though he’s the one telling it, there’s a part of him that urges Orpheus to not turn around this time, hopes that Eurydice will stay despite Orpheus’ mistake. 

But the tale is age-old, and the ending has not changed in millennia, so Jon tells the story as it happens, despite how the ending plays out. 

“Hm,” is all Martin says after Jon finishes. Admittedly, it’s not the reaction Jon expected, so he cranes his head to look at Martin. 

“Hm?”

“Oh, it’s just-” Martin chuckles softly. “It’s just that I always assumed you were such a good storyteller because of the Eye, and all, but here you are cut off from it and you’re still spinning stories just like you were outside.” 

Jon sits up in mock outrage. “I’ve always been a good storyteller,” he argues, and Martin laughs. 

“Well, I know that now,” he says, reaching up to bring Jon back down into his embrace, “don’t I?”

Jon dodges his grab, just quickly enough to snatch the wine they’d borrowed from Mikaele. “Care for a drink?” he asks, and Martin smiles, and sits up. 

They don’t have glasses, so they just pass the bottle back and forth, taking sips and gazing out at the constellations above them. Jon tells a few more tales of the stories written into the stars, though they slowly grow less coherent as he drinks a little too much wine and becomes a little too giggly to make complete sense. Martin just keeps smiling at him, and even in the night chill, Jon feels so warm he thinks he might burst. 

When they do head back inside, tottering up towards the house with a dewy blanket and a much-emptier bottle of wine, Jon insists on holding Martin’s hand, and doesn’t let go until they’ve both fallen into a very deep sleep back in their very comfortable bed. 

* * *

Picnics always seem better in theory. 

The next afternoon is sunny and warm, so they return outside, this time with their books, to soak up some sun together out on the lawn. 

They still haven’t discussed yet when they’re leaving, and Jon tries not to think about it. It’s a bit odd, but he picked out quite a hefty book, and there’s a little voice in the back of his head that just assumes they’ll leave once he finishes it. 

Jon tries to stop himself from reading slower than usual. 

Once outside, they spread another blanket in the lawn, this time right in the middle of a big patch of sunlight. The sun is bright, and the day is warm, and everything is fine. 

It’s fine. 

It’s just that Jon’s realizing he forgot just how bright the sun _can_ be while they were still traveling through the dim and dreary apocalypse. Reflecting off the stark white pages of his book, the sunlight feels even brighter, and after just a few pages, the space behind his eyes begins to ache, and he blinks rapidly a few times, eyes beginning to water.

He tries to shift, maybe catch a bit of shadow so the pages of the book don’t glare at him so harshly, but in uncrossing his legs he manages to twist the injured leg somehow in just the wrong way, sending a shock of pain shooting up through his calf - which is _stupid,_ Jon thinks bitterly, because the wound had been near healed before they came here, and now it feels like it’s slowly reopening and worsening. 

Jon closes his eyes in an attempt to battle at least the growing headache, but it’s useless, and his head is pounding and his leg is throbbing, and, irritation rising like a knife in his throat, he slams his book shut, dropping it next to him in one swift motion. It’s a large book, so the pages fall together loudly, and Martin raises his head to look over at Jon. 

“Everything alright?” he asks carefully. 

Jon just nods stiffly, eyes still closed and kneading his palms against his forehead, but he can hear as Martin puts his book down and shifts towards him. 

“Jon? What’s up?”

Jon’s hands still, and then slowly fold themselves around his thin frame. “My leg,” he admits, eyes squinting open to peer up at Martin. “I’ve got a headache, and my leg is acting up, and-” 

“Your leg?” Martin’s voice is a flutter of worry. “I thought that was healing.”

“It was,” Jon says, “just not _here,_ it seems.” 

“Oh,” Martin says. “Oh, Jon-”

“It’s fine,” Jon insists, talking over him, “I just - moved it wrong. I’m fine.” 

“I hadn’t even - I didn’t realize that here you wouldn’t be able to-” Martin’s put his book down too, now, babbling a bit, and his hands are indecisive, reaching towards Jon to either hold him or check on his leg, and in response, Jon holds his own hands up. 

“Martin. I promise I’m fine,” Jon says, reaching out to grab one of Martin’s hands, still it from its flurry of anxiety and worry. “I just shifted it wrong, and it’s just a bit bright out here and I’ve got a headache. That’s _all.”_

Martin looks at him, finally dropping his hands. “You’re sure that’s all?” he asks, entwining his fingers with Jon’s, and Jon nods. “Alright. Alright, well, come here, then,” he says, and he sits back and gently tugs Jon next to him. “Have you ever read Dickinson before?” 

“Er - no, I don’t think so.”

“Right. Silly question, I suppose, seeing as I know _all_ about your extensive opinions on poetry,” Martin teases, and Jon groans, closing his eyes and leaning his head against Martin’s chest. 

“I’m sure she’s a perfectly lovely writer,” Jon says. “I just never had any reason to seek out her work.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’ve got a _very_ full volume right here,” Martin says, waving his green-backed book. He flips it open, in a manner that seems casual and unplanned, until Jon catches the dog-eared page on the left. 

“Lucky me,” Jon echoes, fully meaning it, and Martin smiles. 

“Okay, how do you feel about a poem about… the moon?” 

“Better than the sun,” Jon mutters, squinting up to look at Martin. Martin snorts, and then slings an arm around Jon before straightening out the book and beginning to read. 

“The moon is distant from the sea,” he begins, a slight waver in his voice, as he attempts to find his footing, “And yet with amber hands, she leads him-” 

Martin reads on, and Jon lets him. His headache still isn’t easing up much, which is disappointing, to say the least. The sun is still bright, and his leg still throbs in pain with what should be a long-since healed wound, and even though he’s put down his book, the printed words still swim in front of him, even when he closes his eyes. Martin’s voice is soothing, though, even if it’s not enough to plaster over all the other bits of pain that are causing Jon to feel taut, stretched out and worn thin. 

That, and the fact that the truth is beginning to stare Jon in the face. He’d been putting off thinking about it, the lack of Knowledge, the slight wooziness setting in, all the other things that add up to them having much less time here than they originally thought. But he knows now, that he’s the ticking time bomb, the slow countdown until they have to leave paradise to re-enter hell. It isn’t fair. Martin should be allowed to stay here and read poetry for as long as he likes. He shouldn’t be forced to leave this respite behind just because Jon isn’t suited to being human, anymore. 

“And mine the distant sea, obedient to the least command,” Martin is saying, “thine eyes impose on me.”

He could ask, of course. Let Martin know it’d be alright if he just wanted to stay here, with its poetry and comfortable beds and freshly brewed tea and warm baths. He deserves those simple comforts. 

Martin would say no, though, unequivocally and completely. They’ve already said it to each other enough times, that they are on this journey together, and are not leaving each other behind. Jon’s almost starting to believe it.

* * *

It’s raining again. 

The rain is drumming against the window, an uneven rhythm, an unsteady beat, and it’s all Jon can hear. 

Jon is sitting in the bedroom. He’s pretty sure it’s the bedroom, though he’ll admit he doesn’t totally know how he got there. The last thing he remembers is dinner in the garden, and it’s been at least some time since then. Is it morning, now? It must be. There’s light filtering through the curtains, dreary and grey to match the rain. 

The rain. Jon thought he missed it, but maybe he didn’t. Maybe that’s worse to think, but the rain makes him think of an awful lot of awful things he’d rather not recall. Cold beaches, stormy nights at sea, a house filling up slowly with the downpour from outside. 

The rain splatters again and again against the windowpane, repetitive and uneven, and the drumming fills his head and clouds his thoughts, making it impossible to focus on or hear anything else. There’s really only the endless rain. 

Then something nudges his shoulder, and Jon almost leaps a foot in the air. 

Martin jumps back, too, hands held up. “Sorry! Sorry, I - are you okay? You were a bit zoned out there, I was - I called your name, uh, a couple times.” 

“Oh,” Jon says. He breathes heavily, feeling as though he was just slammed back into his body, and notes distantly that he’s sitting on the floor in front of the window. “Er - sorry. Just… preoccupied, I suppose.” 

“Right, well-” Martin runs a hand through his already disheveled hair and yawns. “Come back to bed?”

“Oh,” Jon says again, because he’s in his pyjamas even though he doesn’t recall pulling them on, because it’s not mid-morning as he had assumed in a daze, but barely the transition from night to dawn. “Right. Of course.” 

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Martin murmurs, his voice already rough with sleep as he pulls Jon close to him under the covers a moment later. “You’ve seemed a bit… out of it, these past couple days.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jon says, still wide-awake. And he will be fine, of course. Once they leave, he’ll be fine. 

* * *

“Just - can you explain it to me?” Martin asks. “I know you haven’t been feeling great, but…” 

“The Eye is…” Jon pauses. He looks up at Martin. He looks back at his hands. “I’m very connected to it, especially now. Not being able to access it has had some… significant effects. Nausea. Dizzy spells. Slight memory loss, I-I think.”

“Christ, Jon.” Martin places his hands against the bed as if to steady himself. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“I just - I love you,” Jon starts, “and I thought you deserved to have a break from - from everything out there.” 

“Well, I love _you,”_ Martin snaps back, “and I don’t want you to waste away waiting for me to finish my _break_ from the literal apocalypse.” 

They’re both quiet for a minute, and then Martin seems to deflate a bit. 

“Sorry,” he says quietly. 

“No, that’s-” Jon shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” 

Martin opens his mouth as though to say something back, but then just closes it and shakes his head as well. “Right, so, we need to leave. Do you need to go now? I know it’s late, but honestly once we get out of the bubble it probably won’t be as dark-” 

“No, I - tomorrow morning, I think,” Jon says. He looks down, tugs at the heavy duvet. “I _am_ sorry. I know you like it here.”

“Jon, that’s…” Martin sighs, climbing onto the bed and patting the empty space next to him. Jon climbs up as well, joining him, and Martin takes his hand, and continues. “That’s absolutely not what’s important here. If you say you need to go, then, yes, it’s time to go.”

“I just-” Jon tries to interrupt, but Martin squeezes his hand, and Jon gets the hint. 

“Look. You’re more important than - than this bed, or the fancy library, or the drinks, or even getting to see the stars again,” Martin says. He brushes a hand over Jon’s cheek. “All of it, it - it’s not worth whatever’s happening to you.” 

Jon blinks. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. “I love you,” he manages. “And I am… I am still sorry. You deserve to stay here longer.”

“I love you, too,” Martin says back. “And that’s why we’re both going, tomorrow morning, first thing. I’m not letting you go anywhere without me, yeah?”

Jon stares, definitely not blinking back a few tears. He doesn’t have any response to that except to immediately reach over to hold onto Martin as tight as he can. It’s barely a hug, really, just Jon clinging and hoping it can convey the deep well of emotion building up in the space hovering just beneath his throat. Martin seems to understand, though, as he tucks his arms around Jon, holding on just as tight. 

Jon wonders what would happen if they never let go. He wonders if he could just hold onto Martin for the rest of time, if they could just weather out the apocalypse in an embrace. But clinging isn’t a happy ending, and though he does not know what awaits them in London, he knows that they have to keep traveling there to find out. The journey will be the journey, and this oasis and this embrace have only been a brief, albeit much-needed, rest stop. Jon has enjoyed playing at being really, fully human again, even just for a few short days, but reality is bubbling back up again, and he knows he can’t survive here any longer. It’s time to move on, Martin by his side. 

So the next morning, they leave. They pack their things, Martin definitely not snatching a few extra books of poetry for the road, while Jon, head pounding and vision swimming, barely makes it out without toppling over. Martin exchanges some words with Annabelle and Mikaele, and then they leave. The paradise fades to nothing behind them, and as it disappears from their vision, it slips from Jon’s mind just as easy, the memory melting away to nothing like ice cream left out on a hot day. He can feel it go, feel the way it dissipates into nothingness as he tries even harder to remember, can feel the absence the memories leave behind. 

“What was it like?” he asks, and Martin tries quickly to hide a wounded expression. 

“…Nice,” he finally answers. “It was… it was really nice.” 

Jon reaches out for his hand and gives it a squeeze, and, somewhere nearby, hears a tape recorder click off. 

**Author's Note:**

> hi again and thank you sm for reading!! 
> 
> title from sight of the sun by fun. 
> 
> if you want to watch me react to the tma finale in real time you can find me on tumblr [@thirteenthdyke](https://thirteenthdyke.tumblr.com)  
> and you can also check out my [jonmartin playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4CzzVCaLyMD4yTrFPwiJGX?si=d5UaqxYQRWOIO5vx3l3nsQ) !


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